Permanence
by beachglass5387
Summary: Thomas has the flu. Jimmy brings him a tray. Something else may be going on, or not.


**Permanence**

"_Strong characters are brought out by change of situation, and gentle ones by permanence.__" – Jean Paul  
_

"Go on then, take that lot up to him," Mrs. Patmore says, gesturing at the tray she had made up.

"He's ill," Jimmy says, hesitantly. "He's been ill for two days and-"

"What are you, a doctor now?" Mrs. Patmore says.

"It's only, well…I don't want to catch what he has, do I?"

Mrs. Patmore glares. "You don't want to catch a smack either, I expect, but it's funny how things can turn out."

Jimmy realizes he has pushed his luck as far as he dares, reaches for the tray, and heads for the stairs. He glances down: tea, toast, and soup. Well, he thinks, Mr. Barrow can't be that sick if he's eating. It's the flu, but not _that _flu. Still, Jimmy hates seeing people he is used to seeing up and around sick and lying in bed. It makes them seem…well, not feeble exactly, but less permanent, somehow. Like if he turned around for a minute they might be gone and that would be that. That was how it had been with his mother, anyway.

Nonsense, he thinks. Cowardly, foolish nonsense. Besides, Mr. Barrow isn't the sort of person who dies of things like the flu. And even if he is, it wasn't as if Jimmy wouldn't carry on, just the same. He just doesn't like being around sick people. Most people don't.

Jimmy balances the tray on his hip as he reaches up to knock. No answer. He knocks again. "Come on, Mr. Barrow," he mutters, waiting. Still nothing. He's annoyed. He has better things to do than play nursemaid and he doesn't dare bring the tray back down to Mrs. Patmore. He knows Mr. Barrow is in there. How hard is it to get up and open the door? Or yell "come in?" It's just like Mr. Barrow, Jimmy thinks, taking advantage of being ill to make everyone wait on him. Why wouldn't he just…or maybe, Jimmy thinks, maybe he can't-

Jimmy opens the door a crack and peers inside. He can see Mr. Barrow under the blankets but he can't tell – well, he has to bring the tray in anyway, doesn't he? Jimmy nudges the door open wider and walks in. He puts the tray down on top of Mr. Barrow's bureau, walks over to the bed, and looks down. The blankets are moving gently with Mr. Barrow's breaths. Of course they are. He's asleep. Sick people sleep heavily. Everyone knows that, Jimmy thinks.

He supposes he should let him sleep. Only, the food will go cold. He looks down at Mr. Barrow, trying to decide what to do, and is reminded of visiting Mr. Barrow in this room in the days after he'd taken the beating for Jimmy. Except, Mr. Barrow had always been awake then. Now, sick and asleep, he is even paler than usual and his dark hair is in disarray. He looks younger this way, Jimmy thinks. And sort of…well, _softer_ than usual.

He's handsome, too, Jimmy thinks, but everyone still takes him seriously. Even though he's…like he is. Asleep, he looks more like Thomas the footman than the grand Mr. Barrow. Strange, Jimmy has never really thought about it before, but the other man must have had to work hard to stay and rise at Downton. He must have had to make himself seem older, sterner, meaner, and…What is he doing standing around in another man's bedroom staring down at its sleeping occupant?

"Oy!" Jimmy says loudly.

Mr. Barrow opens his eyes and it seems to take him longer than usual to focus on Jimmy's face. "Jimmy? What? Why are you in here?"

"Mrs. Patmore told me to bring a tray up to you," Jimmy says quickly. He isn't sure why, but he feels greatly relieved. "You didn't answer your door."

"Right," Thomas says, hunching down farther under his blankets and closing his eyes again. "I don't think I can manage-"

"Why? You're not dying," Jimmy interrupts. Even he can hear how rude he sounds.

"Well, I'd hope they'd send Dr. Clarkson and not you if I was dying. Can't think you'd be much help."

"Right," Jimmy says, for some reason starting to feel annoyed. "If you don't even want to eat anything, it's a bloody waste of my time carrying food up here. Uh…Mr. Barrow," he concludes awkwardly, realizing he's overstepped. Usually, Mr. Barrow would be furious at being talked to that way by a footman, even Jimmy. But Mr. Barrow seems not to have heard him or, at least, he is not enough himself to make a fuss. In fact, he seems to be asleep again, or—

"Thomas?" Jimmy says, realizing immediately that he'd used the wrong name. Why would he say that? True, sometimes he did think of the man as Thomas, which was bad enough, but saying it?

Mr. Barrow opens his eyes again and, mercifully, does not comment on Jimmy using his Christian name.

"Right," Jimmy says, "well? Do you want this or not?" Belatedly, it occurs to him how that could be misconstrued. Especially with him going soft and referring to Mr. Barrow as "Thomas." "The food, I mean," he clarifies.

"Maybe," Mr. Barrow. "Only, could you…could you bring it over here?"

"What?" Jimmy asks.

"Oh for Christ's sake, it's bad enough that you're in here. If I have to get up to get that I might bloody well fall over and that would be even worse!"

"You don't need to yell," Jimmy says. He's relieved to hear Thomas snap at him. It's reassuring, somehow. "I make my living carrying trays, you know."

Jimmy takes up the tray again and moves the lamp so that he can set it down on the table beside the bed. Mr. Barrow makes no move to reach for it and seems to be doing his best to ignore Jimmy staring down at him. Jimmy notices for the first time that he can see the tops of the man's bare shoulders under the blanket.

"Are you…you're not…"Jimmy can't seem to find the words. Doesn't even know what he means to ask.

"No," Thomas says groggily, pulling the blanket up tightly under his chin. "It's just with the fever it's…it's so hot so I took me shirt off."

"Is the fever that bad, then?" Jimmy asks before he can stop himself.

"How should I know?" Thomas snarls. He looks miserable.

"Well, since you're the one who has it…"Jimmy says.

"Worried you're next?" Thomas sneers.

"No," Jimmy says. "I just…I mean…They say you'll be alright, yeah?"

Mr. Barrow starts to shrug, but then seems to remember that he isn't wearing a shirt and stops. "Like it would matter to you," Mr. Barrow mutters under his breath. Jimmy can tell that he wasn't supposed to hear that. Footmen can always tell when they aren't supposed to hear something.

"I'll be fine," Mr. Barrow says loudly.

"As soon as I stop bothering you?" Jimmy says, grinning. He goes back around to the other side of the bed and pulls out the chair that he used to sit on when he read Mr. Barrow the paper. Mr. Barrow glares. "Shouldn't you sit up and eat something? Keep your strength up?"

"No," Thomas says, closing his eyes again, as if to pretend Jimmy isn't there.

Jimmy laughs. "Don't like people seeing you sick, do you? My mother always said there were two kinds of men – them that wanted to go off into the woods to die alone and them that wanted a five act play written about a head cold." Jimmy bites his lip, then. He doesn't usually talk about his mother. He remembers her telling him that his dad was the first type and that he, Jimmy, was the second. It had always made Jimmy laugh when she'd said it, but now all it makes him think of is his father, dying alone someplace in France. He swallows hard and looks away.

When he looks back, he sees that Mr. Barrow is watching him. He doesn't look as annoyed as before, Jimmy thinks.

"No, I don't like _people_ seeing me sick," Mr. Barrow says. "I'm…I'm sorry if I was…hell. Bein' stuck in bed reminds me of the war. Reminds me of things I don't like bein' reminded of."

"It reminds me of the war, too," Jimmy says quietly.

"You weren't in hospital?" Thomas asks.

"No," Jimmy says, "Not me." And he hadn't been. He'd come through the war without a scratch, handsome as ever, while everyone else had died in hospitals leagues away.

"Good thing, too," Mr. Barrow says. "None of the nurses would have gotten any work done."

Jimmy smiles at that. He knows he is supposed to. "You worked in the hospitals, yeah? Any good at it?"

Mr. Barrow shrugs, seeming to forget about the blankets, and Jimmy watches as they slide down to reveal Mr. Barrow's collar bone. Jimmy looks away quickly before Mr. Barrow can notice.

"I were alright," Mr. Barrow says.

"I would have been rubbish," Jimmy says, smiling again. "All my patients snarling at me to get out and refusing to drink their tea. I would have been chucked out in under a week and no mistake."

"I doubt that," Mr. Barrow says, smiling back. He still looks pale and ill, but, somehow, it is a smile that makes his face seem different. Kinder, maybe.

Jimmy doesn't know what possesses him, but he reaches out to squeeze Mr. Barrow's shoulder. It feels warm and solid and permanent. No, Jimmy thinks, for certain Thomas Barrow isn't the type that dies of the flu.

"Jimmy," Mr. Barrow says, sounding shocked.

But Jimmy is already getting up and heading to the door. "You'll be right as rain in no time, I expect. I'll be up for the tray later."

"I…Thank you," Mr. Barrow says.

"Any way," Jimmy says, his hand on the doorknob. "I would care. If you weren't going to be alright, I mean, Thomas. I would care." And then he is shutting the door and hurrying down the stairs.


End file.
